Is it wrong of me to want to go vegan, only to not go vegan, just to piss off the vegans? This is the kind of question that occupies my thoughts. This and much, much darker things. Thankfully, I am in control of my faculties, at least for now, and my fingers, which I use to craft these stories. There is no right answer. Yes, that’s me on the left. And that is my friend David on the right. David is no longer with us. He took his own life two years ago, two days after we lunched together. I don’t think I was the prime reason he decided to check out in dramatic fashion, but I probably didn’t help matters.
David lived a unique life. A Jewish boy growing up in a latino community in Arizona. A father with a mysterious government job who eventually took his own life. David left home at fifteen with a backpack full of weed and his trusty axe. He headed south for a job with SNCC and gigs as a blues guitar player under the name Little Davey G. And then came Laguna Beach with Tim Leary as his neighbor. The Brotherhood, Sunshine Acid, a move to rural Hawaii, and then ten years in India at Osho’s ashram. A resettlement, Germany for a decade, before landing in Santa Fe where I met him on a dance floor. Dude could dance. And no, we were not dancing with each other. I could never keep up.
David was a pal.
He could be difficult, which led to his estrangement from many in our circles. For some reason, I escaped the wrath, and I’m glad I did. David was a great storyteller, and also loved to hear my updates, often responding with “Far out, man,” but not like the Buddha bracelet, Land Rover “far out” crowds of today. David’s “Far out,” had meaning, history and context. “David, did you ever do acid with the Brotherhood?” “Well,” he would say casually. “We used to do three hundred hits at once and when we peaked we would do another drug just to see what happened.” He said he knew it was time to quit when he woke up in a bathtub in an abandoned house. Live and learn baby.
David was a masterful guitar player and songwriter, and like most musicians I know, was happiest when turning on someone new.
Guitar players often can’t comprehend someone NOT being able to play, so they just pretend that you do. “Hey, do you want to jam?” he asked. “David, I don’t know how to play guitar, never touched one,” I answered. “We should play sometime,” he responded. “I don’t know how to play,” I kept saying until one day I opened the front door of his house to find him standing, hands on hips, like a drill sergeant. “Sit on the couch and do exactly as I tell you,” he said handing me a spare guitar.
In five minutes I was a three chord wonder and was jamming with my friend. David could play anything, any genre, just by hearing a song one time. He would trick me by slowly playing background filler tracks until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Sitting in his favorite chair, smiling at me, as if to say, “Only a matter of time.” knowing I would HAVE to try to play along. He was encouraging. “If you had found guitar when you found photography you would be a pro by now,” he said.
David and I had been friends for many years, but it wasn’t until I volunteered to babysit him after a hip replacement that I truly bonded with the man. Due to his past life, he was nervous about taking pain meds. The clinic where the procedure was done messed up his scripts and dosage. I knew something was wrong because David became another person. Crazed would be the easiest way to explain it. And yes, I have images of this because I’m me. I became an expert on drugs and dosages, getting him back on track and assisting him at all hours of the day.
In return, David cooked for me. He was awesome in the kitchen, so anal retentive he labeled every single device, spice, pot, pan, utensil and ingredient. He couldn’t handle caffeine and would marvel and my massive bowls of espresso. Eventually, he would cave to my badgering, allowing me to make him coffee using three or four GRAINS of coffee. He had great tea, incredible Indian spices and was a master at the grill. We worked for months on the perfect burger, the perfect Asian ribs. His off day in the kitchen was better than my personal best. And it was over the grill that we spent our final time together.
The call came to my wife’s phone. “Hello, this is the Santa Fe Police Department, do you know a David Goldberg?” “Shit,” I said, grabbing my clothes and heading to his house. My first thought was home invasion. Several years earlier, David had photographed two men robbing the house across the street. The city awarded him a medal of some sort, and robbery in his neighborhood was not uncommon. As I turned on to his street I could see two SFPD officers standing in the middle of the road. I parked and walked over. The officers were young, very young, and I could tell by their faces and shocked expression they had found the body and it was no home invasion. Eventually, neighbors on both sides would remember hearing a shot.
I’ll spare you the details, but in some ways David was generous even in death, and in other ways he showed his lack of real plan. I’m not sure what triggered the final moment, I’ll never know, but however you feel about this sort of thing, you have to admit it does require fortitude and commitment. He wanted out. That is abundantly clear.
Memory is a funny thing. Memory plays tricks on us. Memory was never meant to be perfect, and the tapestry it forms is most often a pattern that makes us feel good more than supplying a play-by-play of what happened. I often wonder how I could have missed the signs. Did he provide clues I was too selfish to see? Since that day I’ve had numerous conversations with those who knew him. Some claimed to see it coming, others left in the dark like me.
Yesterday, as the sun breached the Sangre de Christo range, I pedaled hard along a dirt track just outside of town. Lungs burning, legs burning, fingers and toes cold in the morning chill. And there was “Deva,” in my mind, clear as day. He didn’t bike, or run, or hike for that matter, so this felt interesting but odd. Why here? Why now? He was happy, standing in his hippy sandals and short shorts. Tank top, veins bulging. (The most vascular human I’ve ever met, which he said was helpful during his drug days.) He was just smiling and watching. The track disappeared before me, and what remained was David and I. There was no verbal communication. There was simply an acknowledgment. He to me, and I to he. “I’m here brother,” I said. He didn’t respond. He just kept smiling, and I knew what that smile meant. “Far out, man.”
Comments 18
RIP David ❤️
Author
Yes, you knew the crazy guy. I miss him.
Good stuff Milnor…I also had a friend who decided it was time to go similar to the. I always asked myself why? Why didn’t he call me? If he had issues why didn’t he talk to someone…he was alone in a hotel room in Ohio. Nothing fancy sort of like him. To this day I still ask myself what could have been done but if you’re not aware of the problem there’s not much you can do. Sad….
Author
Lots of second-guessing. Sucks.
Your ability to draw me into the stories you write is incredible, even though it’s not my native language. Thank you for sharing them. I too lost a dear friend a few years ago while I was abroad. Thrown from his bike by a car, his customized bike, a piece of art. He was a true artist, eccentric and brilliant, and few could truly understand him. I still miss our dawn conversations.
Author
These folks should remind us to stop pretending, and to accomplish what we feel we need to accomplish even if that means not much.
Wherever David is now, there will be some lucky people in the afterlife enjoying amazing food and incredible stories! I really liked David, I remember meeting him at your house back in 2012 and I think we connected quickly somehow, equally weird and awkward in ways. I never met anyone with stories like David! If people want to hear a bit of David’s guitar playing, he created the soundtrack to the Una Pura Verdad documentary, that was also a really nice project to work together on.
Author
He always asked about you. I would tell him lies, of course. Flemming is in prison. Flemming is on the run. Flemming became a monk. Speaking of the doc, I recently watched it again.
Both my son and my younger brother took their own lives. In both cases I never suspected that they would do what they did. Were they troubled? Yes. Did I try to help? Yes. Was there more I could do? I don’t know. Sometimes I ask myself that question. More than anything, I just try and remember the good times and do my best not to feel guilty about maybe not being a better father or brother and thinking that may have saved them.
Author
Geez Gerald, so sorry to hear that. I think there is another layer to this that we can’t imagine. Like depression. I’ve not had it but have many friends who do, and when they explain to me what it’s like, it is impossible for me to know how bad and all encompassing that is.
This is a brilliant post. Thank you for sharing it with us. 🙏
Author
Glad you “enjoyed.”
A buddy I started my police career with, lived with, got married around the same time, and hung out regularly, found himself getting a divorce when his wife said she wanted a different life. And one night, he hiked into the woods, and shot himself in the temple. I spoke at his funeral, and hugged his grieving father so tightly. And now, many years later, I’m retired. And I imagine he’s retired too, and we get together and sip a cold beer. But of course, it is not to be. For some, the pain of sticking around is greater than the pain of checking out. But we are the ones they leave behind, and the sting of loss is a constant companion.
Author
Odd how these thoughts and feelings come on. I think we have only started to understand the mind and brain.
It’s been two days since I read your post about Goldberg. I’m still conflicted about David and it’s been how many years? Only two? Seems like a decade. Mostly I try to remember the good and the great about David. The great was that he got me into playing guitar .. and writing songs .. to this day. He was also an amazing racounteur – I remember one night that we hosted a dinner at our place — a few photographers teaching at the Workshops joined us, you and Amy were there, and David was sharing stories about the Ashram, dropping acid, and living in a crap place in/near Laguna, hanging out with Timothy Leary who lived upstairs. What an amazing life – ground zero for the 60’s revolution!
The conflicted side was that after his death I learned he had not been truthful about some pretty important things – things that called much of what David did and said into question. I’ve still not reconciled.
Maybe I need to write a song about him/all of it?
Author
EG,
When I first met him, I kept thinking “This stuff can’t be real.” Over time, I met enough of his old pals to at least verify a good part of the story. And then there were the photos we found after he died. Images from many of the scenes he described. I don’t know why he never showed these images. None of us did. But he was not without his faults, and you were on the wrong side of those, so I can understand why you feel the way you do. I somehow managed to miss those. His circle was closing in near the end, and maybe I was a remaining bridge he didn’t want to destroy. He had so much going for him, but I think that past life took a toll on his mind and his confidence.
When a Jewish person passes away, there are a few things one can say to comfort mourners, one of which is: may his memory be a blessing. I feel like the way you continue to remember him two years later is very much a blessing. Thank you for sharing his memory with us.
Author
Good point. And yes, he is floating around my head on a regular basis.